


Crescendo

by Tabby Kattene (LoveLoveLovix)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Boarding School, Canon Autistic Character, Canon LGBTQ Character, Chess Metaphors, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, Good versus Evil, Psychic Abilities, Swan Lake - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveLoveLovix/pseuds/Tabby%20Kattene
Summary: After two gap years, Margret Siegfried returns to her old school only to find a number of seemingly simple mistakes leading her to the mysterious and alluring Odette Rowel. As secrets come to light and plans fall apart, Margret ends up as the newest member of a ragtag group of young adults with special powers and strange sorts of magic.Magic isn't all it's cracked up to be, however, especially when it leads the group into a plot that could determine each of their fates, and into a war that proves that nothing is ever simply black and white.





	1. Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Margret Siegfried returns to Cygnet Lake College Academy.

She was the oldest person in the testing room. She had to be. From the pristine notebooks to the proudly-sported mix of merch from various high schools and from Cygnet Lake College Academy it was obvious that these were all high school juniors, maybe a few seniors, anxious but well prepared. They were here not because this was home, but because they wanted it to be. Some, it showed, more than others. The ones who wrung their hands and frantically paged through college ruled sheets of paper were the ones who really had a lot riding on this. Perhaps their parents were alumni. Perhaps they simply loved the environment of Cygnet Lake, infamously known by its nickname… the “City of Children.”

Margret had a lot riding on this too. Probably more than anyone else, she decided. She’d graduated from the high school division two years ago, shedding the lower school uniform gratefully. However, unlike most of her friends, she had refused to beeline towards the college courses, the main attraction of Cygnet Lake and its strange education styles. She’d taken one gap year, then what was really just a glorified one afterwards… a single three-credit course at the local community college while she worked part-time in fast food and met with her Dungeons and Dragons club every weekend. It took a letter reminder that her acceptance to Cygnet Lake still stood before she even considered going back.

Having to retake the entrance exam? That had not been in the cards. Not one bit.

At least she knew if she got in once, she could  _ probably _ do it again.

The proctor walked in, and Margret had to blink. Perhaps it was because she was twenty years old now, an adult herself, but she hadn’t remembered the staff of Cygnet Lake looking quite so young, or quite so… not attractive, no, that wasn’t the right word. The English language itself seemed to spin as Margret tried to pull out the correct, precise way to describe this woman. Her skin was dark and smooth, with her short, neat hair being one of the few things around that was even darker. Soft brown eyes were made slightly less soft by the wire frame silver glasses that perched on her large, lovely nose. Perhaps most noticeable was her height. She stood at at least six feet. She wasn’t wearing heels.

As Margret stared at her without abandon, trying to figure out just who this woman was, just how she’d write about this woman, the woman met her eyes. The eyes seemed to sparkle knowingly, and the lovely proctor gave her a little smile. Embarrassed, Margret managed to turn her eyes to her desk, looking down.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid _ , chided her intrusive thoughts. 

And then the woman spoke, and Margret found herself drawn right back in, completely against herself. “Welcome to Cygnet Lake College Academy. I’m Professor Odette Rowel, and I will be your proctor for the entrance exam. This is the…” She stopped, looked down at a paper, read it for a second, then looked back up, smiling apologetically. “College entrance exam. Most of you have already passed the written application, or else are currently awaiting your results. As you already know, Cygnet Lake does not hold with SATs or ACTs. We have our own measures. From our high graduation rate and the amount of students who find job even before leaving our hallowed halls, you can be assured they work.”

If it had been any other person, Margret would have tuned out the speech. She knew it, knew the history and science of the school, by heart. Cygnet Lake was primarily a college, one that focused on taking nontraditional learners and turning them into little less than geniuses in their field. The emphasis was on discipline, family, hands on learning. Students sacrificed a little freedom as college students with the knowledge that their adulthood would be made brighter. Most of them would be quite affluent by the time they hit the age of forty.

It was fairly recently in school history that they took it a step further and implemented the lower school programs… a middle school and high school that sat on the same campus as Cygnet Lake College and funneled directly in. Margret was intimately familiar with the lower school, having started in it at age twelve. It was just as demanding as the college, and just as renowned for its ability to turn out brilliancies where once there had only been blunders. She herself was one such kid, though whether she was now considered to be a smart girl was a little up for debate.

Cygnet Lake College Academy’s three schools sparked necessary dorms, book stores, restaurants, convenience shops, student unions, a shuttle system for the campus. Since the addition of the lower school twenty years prior, the school had become its own entity, its own city. Its nickname seemed an exaggeration to outsiders, but to the students, nothing was more apt. Every year, it seemed, the gates were under construction, stretching outwards to allow more and more buildings in.

“We’re always expanding,” said Professor Rowel, almost in unison with Margret’s thoughts, “and we hope that this expansion includes you. Please do your best on this test. Remember, however, that we do not issue acceptances entirely on grades, but rather will take your interview results, written application, and other factors into consideration. Don’t worry too much, don’t stress yourself. We don’t want to have to cart anyone out on a stretcher this go around!”

The high schoolers around Margret let out a little bit of strained laughter. Doubtless some of them worried they wouldn’t be able to help it.

“The test instructions are printed on the first page of your booklet. You may begin.”

* * *

One by one, people finished. One by one, people were called into the neighboring room, one that was thankfully and horribly soundproof, for interviews. Margret was last to finish and last to be called. Waiting in the test room, at the uncomfortable high school desks that she had outgrown both physically and emotionally, was more painful than she would ever let on. Her acceptance was basically guaranteed, she had been assured. Like all graduating seniors with a C average or better, she had no issues getting into the college. It was those damn gap years that caused trouble… that and the tightness of the dorms, something they were working to remedy. Unlike most in her year, she couldn’t go back to the same room she’d had for ages. They had doubtless given it to someone else (and idly, Margret wondered how Thomasina liked whatever new roommate she’d been given in college). She wasn’t even sure she’d be in the same building, though the mostly-preoccupied lower school aged tour guide that met her at the gates assured her that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Rather than the sardine-can small dorm rooms, she might get a room in one of the brand new cottages that had come to dot the City of Children since she’d left.

It was at least an hour between finishing the exam and getting shuffled into the interview room. Tired and nervous, Margret didn’t bother to straighten her sweater or so much as run a hand through her long, blonde hair to dislodge any tangles. It wouldn’t do much good, though some vague corner of her mind was well aware that it was better than nothing.

The proctor, the lovely, lovely Professor Rowel, was the one giving the interview. She motioned Margret in with a smile and an offered hand. It took a moment before Margret remembered what she was supposed to do. When she finally did shake, the motion felt limp even to her, and she silently cursed even as she forced her lips into some approximation of a smile.

“Margret Giselle Siegfried,” mused Professor Rowel. “You’re an unusual case.”

_ What? Why? Is it the autistic thing? Am I doing something wrong? Do I look more of a mess than I know I do? _

“You took two years off, and now you’re back. I suppose I don’t have to go through the standard school introduction with you then?”

“No… no. I know it. Really, uh, well.”

Professor Rowel smiled. “Understandable. I’m a lower school alumni as well. And, obviously, a college alumni too. I can’t imagine leaving and returning, though… well, I can’t imagine leaving at all. You’d grow to miss this place.”

“Yes,” said Margret. Relief flooded her voice, something even she could recognize. Professor Rowel had hit it… not quite on the nose, things were a little more nuanced than she could believe, but the most of it was correct. It was hard being out in the real world when you could instead be in the City of Children. It felt wrong.

That wasn’t the only thing that drove Margret Siegfried back to Cygnet Lake, but the other thing was her secret, a secret that clung to her like black, thick tar.

“That’s why you’re back?” said Professor Rowel. She looked vaguely amused. 

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, it is.” It wasn’t entirely a lie.

The gorgeous professor let out a little laugh. “I like that. So, tell me, what did you do over your gap years?”

Margret had plans for this. She was going to talk about her part time retail hell job… the singular English course she took, defend why she had only taken that one course… she was going to elaborate on her weekend “creative writing group” (her cover story for the Dungeons and Dragons group she played with) and the social and creative skills she was getting from it.

...was that right? Was that the right thing to say? The fear and nervousness struck her suddenly. What if it seemed like a lie? What if it seemed like she was trying too hard? What if this Professor Rowel sent her away because of this, leaving her unable to return to Cygnet Lake?

Professor Rowel waited patiently. It was infuriating. It was nerve wracking.

Of their own volition, words tumbled from Margret’s lips, like the fairy tale about the girl who spoke in snakes and snails. “Mostly,” she said abruptly, “I played a lot of D&D.”

Professor Rowel’s eyes got bright, like she was holding in laughter. “Do you want to know something?”

“Um.” The blush on her own face, Margret knew, was probably not a good thing. Couldn’t she go five seconds without her heart showing on her sleeve? Professor Rowel didn’t have to know how embarrassed she was, right?

“I used to play, too.”

“Oh.” Was that better, or worse? Better, because it meant she didn’t look like a huge nerd. Worse, because now Professor Rowel knew how uselessly she spent her weekends.

“Creativity, dedication, problem solving. Group skills. Social skills.”

Margret blinked, hoping hazel eyes didn’t show the racing, nervous thoughts behind them. “Um. What?”

Professor Rowel’s smile was patient, nearly horrifyingly so in Margret’s worried, nervous state. “Those are skills that you must have if you’re participating in a tabletop roleplaying game campaign of any sorts. They are skills that you must know we value here at Cygnet Lake. You’ve shown me that you can be a great problem solver, someone who is a woman of action. Someone who isn’t afraid to be involved with a little bit of good, old fashioned magic.”

_ What? Did she just take my own defense right out of my head? How… why? _

_ Don’t question it _ , snarked Margret’s bad side, which sometime in the past twenty years had gained a personification, and to which she assigned all the thoughts she had that weren’t necessarily nice.  _ Just roll with it, idiot. _

“You’re not afraid of magic, are you?”

Margret frowned. “Um. I think you’d have to be… kind of crazy not to be afraid of magic? I mean, if it exists. If it were to exist. It’s pretty scary stuff… I think? So yeah, I’m, I mean, I’d be scared of it, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t, y’know, ah, embrace it.” She blushed, embarrassed.  _ Nice going, Siegfried, you just made a fool of yourself. _

Still, Professor Rowel’s eyes were alight, analyzing, and seeming pleased with what she found. “I see. A good answer.”

“Um. Thanks?”

“Of course.” The professor smiled, her eyes unreadable past some amount of pleased excitement. “You can go now, Margret. It was nice to meet you, and I look forward to seeing you around once again.”

“That’s… it?” said Margret dumbly.

“It is.”

“You don’t want to ask me about, like, my classes? Or my job? My other, uh, hobbies?”

There was that patient, patient smile once again. “Why would I? We already know you’re wanted here. You belong to Cygnet Lake College Academy, Margret, and I think we all know that. Now, not that you need it, but the tour guide is waiting for you.”

There was a beat before Margret recognized the dismissal.

Then, she stood and walked out of the room, every answer she had come in with replaced with questions. Her nervousness, however, had not changed a bit.

* * *

 

Despite the words of Professor Rowel, the application process was far from over. Margret fidgeted through her mandatory standard health exam, wincing as the brush of the doctor’s equipment touched her sensitive skin with a feeling comparable to ants dancing ballet on her epidermis. She sucked in her breath, held back her tears. It was all for a good cause. She needed to be back here more than she’d needed anything before. More than she needed food. More than she needed drink. Even more than she needed sensory comfort. There was no comfort to be found back where she had come from, anyway.

It was finished after what seemed like hours and amounted to about thirty minutes in reality, and she and the tour guide beelined thankfully to the main office. There, all there was to do was wait.

No one came out to see her. The secretary sometimes looked her way, but for the most part it was awkward sitting, Margret and the tour guide (oh, how she wished she’d asked the name of that tour guide. Too late now). Minutes after minutes passed, the clock putting pressure on Margret, making her legs shake and her feet tap until finally, the secretary pulled a piece of paper from a silent printer. “Margret Siegfried, results.”

She rose and collected the paper. It was folded, and she straightened it with trembling hands. So much was riding on this… so much more than she’d ever have expected.

**Margret Siegfried** , said the paper.  **Accepted.**

She heaved a sigh of relief, then brought her eyes down to the details of the paper. It listed statistics… her lower school GPA (she turned her eyes away from that one quickly), her new dorm assignment (it was, in fact, one of the new and modern cottage accommodations), her major (general studies), and her house.

**House: Crescendo.**

Margret frowned. “What?”

The secretary looked up, cool. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah. This uh. Um.” She almost regretted bringing it up. Her cheeks warmed up at the idea of this confrontation. “This um, isn’t the right House.”

“Based on?” The secretary’s eyebrow rose. She still seemed detached, and somehow that made it much easier for Margret to push. 

“I’ve been here before. I was, um, in the lower school? Two years ago?” Why was everything coming out like a question?  _ Fuck _ , she mentally cursed. “Yeah, I was a lower school graduate. Am. I’m an alum. Alumni. Alumna? Um.”

“And?”

“And, I was in Castle. Not Crescendo.”

The secretary shrugged. “Times change.”

“But all my shirts and scarves and things are for Castle! I have proof!”

“I don’t make the rules, I just print the papers, kid.”

“But…”

“You can always talk to your House adviser if there’s an issue.”

Margret stared. “Okay, so who is that for Castle?”

“ _ Crescendo _ ?”

“Yeah, sure, um, who is it for Crescendo?”

The secretary let out a “hemmmm” and a “huhhhh.” She bent her head, shuffling through paper after paper with infuriating slowness. Margret heard the air conditioning click on, and the noise and sudden rush of cold air on her skin sent a shiver down her spine. The secretary didn’t seem to see it. The tour guide was fiddling on her smartphone.

Finally, the secretary pulled out a small index card and read off of it. “The Head of House and advisor for Crescendo is Professor Odette Rowel.”

“Oh. I met her.”

“She was proctoring the exam and conducting interviews today,” said the tour guide, as though Margret didn’t already know that. 

Margret sighed. This couldn’t be too bad. Professor Rowel was nice. Strange, but kind. Beautiful, elegant, and most of all, she seemed to understand Margret. Either she would get this sorted out quickly and with a sort of loveliness not commonly associated with a bureaucratic mess, or she would be an alright Head of House and perhaps Margret’s time in Crescendo would be halfway decent. “When can I meet with her?”

“I could give you her phone number,” said the secretary.

Margret paled at the thought of a phone call… all of the awkward and unwanted horror of human conversation, without even the slightest nonverbal communication, the slightest cue to help Margret out, even if it would only be a little bit. And unlike text communication, there was no acceptable way to wait to answer, to come up with a script. A phone call was a death sentence. “Um, anything else? An email? Office hours?”

She probably wasn’t supposed to see the roll of the secretary’s eyes. “Maybe I can give you her work schedule.”

“Oh! That’d be great!”

The secretary just  _ looked _ at Margret, black eyes boring a hole into the brand-new college student’s skull. 

“Oh. That was sarcasm. I… I can take the phone number. Sure.”

The secretary read off digits almost as fast as Margret could enter them into her own cell phone. Margret didn’t even remember to thank her before walking out the door, clutching the tiny device in one hand, and the paper in the other. The tour guide didn’t even seem to realize she was gone.

* * *

She didn’t bother to call Professor Rowel. The idea of making that intimidating phone call sat in her bones… fear for what could happen without the faint clues of body language and facial expression to guide her through a conversation, and guilt hammered into her for feeling scared to call someone at all. 

Instead, she found her way to the cottage. She’d already secured permission to stay there; nobody, it seemed, expected her to fail her entrance exams, and due to her circumstances, things had been set up so that when she rejoined the school, she could do so immediately. Starlight Cottage was on the edge of a small park, with winding trails and flowers that sprung up in neat, lovely rows that Margret found pleasing. There was a small pond within eyesight of the little cottage as well, and it seemed that some of the swans that gave Cygnet Lake its name had made their home there. Margret smiled at the sight; she’d always loved the looks of swans, even if in reality they were mean as could be. Perhaps that was even why she loved them; there was a sort of strength to the birds, something she always had sort of wanted for herself.

The cottage had its own sort of strength. It was modern, but still somehow felt rustic and charming. The mixture of wood, stone, and other materials created a pleasing idea of a cottage, though whether that was the technically correct word seemed up in the air. It loomed at two stories, and probably could easily house as many as ten students in a pinch. 

Margret opened the gate in the lovely iron fence that matched the larger border that surrounded school grounds. The gate didn’t so much as creak, something she appreciated, and she already liked the feeling of the smooth paving stones that made a path under her feet that led straight to the door. She hesitated before the door…  _ What if _ , whispered that voice inside her,  _ this is the wrong cottage and you make a fool out of yourself? _

It made her stop, her hand halfway to the doorknob. She pulled the paper listing her status, her accommodations,  _ the wrong House _ , from her pocket, and she stared at it, then at the address of the cottage she stood in front of. A double check. A triple check. Still, she was worried, and the negative thoughts weren’t letting up at all.

The door opened, and Margret stumbled backwards as a middle-aged woman with thick, curly red hair and a thin and kind face blinked at her. “Hello,” she said. “You must be Margret Siegfried. I was told to expect you.”

“Um,” said Margret, “hi.”

The woman smiled. Hers wasn’t a mysterious sort of elegance like Professor Rowel had, but something more earthy, homey. It was something like the mothers that Margret read about, the ones who made cookies and chaperoned school trips, and could be very, very strict, but  _ never _ unkind. She looked away from the woman’s steady gaze, afraid that those thoughts would show on her face. She was fairly sure that feeling so comfortable wasn’t socially acceptable.

Then again, eye contact was generally the rule. She forced herself to look back to this woman, to meet her eyes. It was uncomfortable, and Margret fidgeted a little under the unflinching stare.

“I’m Alice Tchaikovsky. I’m the director of Starlight Cottage, and many of the other cottages in this area. You’ll be seeing me around from time to time.”

Margret nodded wordlessly, hoping she didn’t seem too rude.

“Let’s get you set up, then!” said Mrs. Tchaikovsky with a little smile. “Things happened very fast with your re-admittance and your room assignment, so we’re sorting out a few bumps in the layout of the cottage and the room assignments and everything… but don’t worry, I’ll worry all about that. It’s my job. There’s only a few others here right now, anyway, so any issues have time to get settled.”

Again, Margret nodded.

Mrs. Tchaikovsky started into the cottage. Margret followed, still wordless, but now admiring the interior of the building. The main door opened into a large combination kitchen and dining room, one that could easily seat the ten people Margret had imagined earlier. The entire room looked untouched, she noted, though whether it was due to Mrs. Tchaikovsky’s cleaning skills, or the fact that most students likely had meal plans that covered the majority of the campus restaurants was unclear. 

She was led down the attached hall, to the last door on the first floor’s left. “Welcome home,” said Mrs. Tchaikovsky, using a silver key to open up the door. 

The room was large, so much larger than her room at home. A lot of it consisted of empty space, blank walls. It felt off, less homey even than a hotel room. The room must have been brand new; the only trace of life were Margret’s boxes, bags, and suitcases, stacked neatly in a corner, courtesy of someone from the school, no doubt. “It’s… nice and clean,” said Margret, reaching for the first honest and pleasant adjectives she could find for it.

“For now,” laughed Mrs. Tchaikovsky. “Let’s see it at the end of the week, right?”

“Yeah.” Margret forced herself to laugh along.

“Well, I’ll leave you to unpacking. I’ll be around if you need anything; if I’m not here, I’m at the cottages next door, or you can call me. I’ll write my number on the whiteboard in the kitchen.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

With one last maternal smile, Mrs. Tchaikovsky walked away. Margret noticed she left the silver key in the doorknob and assumed it was her room key. She stuck it in her pocket, closed the door, and took another look around.

Still wrong. Still very, very not quite right.

Or perhaps she was just tired. 

With a sigh, she collapsed onto the bed. It had already been a long day, and it wasn’t even three in the afternoon. Her body seemed to agree with her; it was not planned at all when, still in her jeans and hoodie, her stomach pressed uncomfortably against the zipper and the silver key, she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 

It was a week before the start of Odette Rowel’s sixth year as staff at her alma mater, and she was already drowning in paperwork. Looking at Ethan, lounging across his favorite bean bag chair with his cell phone held out at arm’s length, relaxed as anything, she felt a twinge of jealousy welling in her chest. She never thought that she’d want to return to  _ grad school _ , which was really just a fancy way of saying hell, but at least graduate students got school breaks.

At least she could choose what she wanted to work on, the choice making things a little easier to swallow. There was organization and filing to be done, or she could start checking the lists of her undergrad students to see who would be eligible for graduation this year. She could double check that everyone taking advanced classes was fine on their prerequisites…  _ Who am I fooling? _ Odette thought without prompt.  _ This is all uninteresting and unimportant. The real fun won’t start until my students get here. _

Her students. She was a professor in the loosest terms; she taught a single class that was open to few, and interesting to even fewer. It was a good cover, however, for the good work she did in actuality. She was an adviser. Of classes. Of majors. Of life itself, to the students who chose to open up to her.

As knowledge, unbidden, rose to the front of her mind as though it had always been there and was merely waiting for the right moment to emerge, she added, of magic.

She concentrated on the thought that had come to her from nothing and nowhere, frowning. It was rare that she knew things this far in advance; the power she possessed kept her strictly operating on a day to day schedule, unable to alert her to interruptions more than twenty-four hours away, but usually it gave her not much more than a matter of minutes, an hour tops. Having something this far was rare. It meant that this something was big, or as big as she was allowed to know, anyway.

“Ethan.”

Ethan gave no sign of moving or responding.

“Ethan,” she said again.

He started bobbing his head in time to music she couldn’t hear, a lazy smile playing on his face. She sighed and stood, hand brushing her desk as she made her way over to her twin brother. With a very neat, light tug, she pulled out an earbud. The cacophony of metalcore, all drums and scratchy vocals and guitar, greeted her like the welcome she never asked for. “ _ Ethan _ ,” she said, exasperated, almost as much in response to the sound as it was to get his attention.

Ethan blinked in surprise. “What?”

Odette couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’ve been trying to get your attention. I’ve learned something. Something about the future.”

“Congratulations?” he said, suitably unimpressed for someone who had dealt with a clairvoyant sister for as long as he could remember.

“Something about  _ tomorrow. _ ”

_ That  _ got the reaction she was hoping for. He sat up, paused his music, and stared at her. “What is it?”

“You’re going to interrupt my meeting with a student tomorrow at eleven thirteen.”

“AM, or PM? I’ve got plans tomorrow night.”

“It would have to be AM; my power doesn’t reach to PM.”

“Last time we checked, anyway.”

With a roll of her eyes, Odette shook her head. “The Crescendo Initiative ran extensive tests. I doubt a new facet of my abilities will pop up anytime soon. Or, at all.”

He gave a little shrug, disappointed, and sat forward, the beans of his beanbag shifting under the new distribution of weight. “If you say so. So, I’m going to just… pop in? Like normal? Do we know what student it is? Their status?”

“It’s never that detailed,” she reminded him.

“And you always seem to guess it anyway. You’re logical. Lay it on me, ‘Dette.”

Her heels clicked across the floor as she walked back to her desk. Sitting there, in an average manila folder, was what she had dismissed as another boring file to file… not so much anymore, it seemed. She flipped it open to find a slim stack of papers, and an outdated school photo from two years ago, a photo of a girl with pale, lightly freckled skin, dull, dirty blonde hair pulled into a loose braid, and unfocused grey eyes that gave her otherwise stern look a vacant expression. That face, Odette had learned only hours ago, could get so much more animated than this awful picture suggested. 

Odette smiled, double checked a couple of details on the papers and set the folder down once again. “Her name,” she told Ethan, “is Margret Siegfried, and tomorrow, she is going to find out that we know about the magic that she’s doubtless been trying to conceal.”

 


	2. Outside Passed Pawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a piece gets captured.

Margret woke up to much the same feeling of wrongness that she had fallen asleep to, her worries unchanged by the four hour nap. For a while, she remained on the bed, trying to analyze the feeling, but after a while, she had to move. Rolling out of bed, she went to the stack of suitcases and boxes that had been placed there to wait for her, and she began to open them and make her room home.

_ Home _ , she realized after a few minutes. That was it.

It wasn’t that the cottage wasn’t lovely, it was that it wasn’t  _ home _ . Her private room inside of it was all wrong, too bare, too strange. Its cream walls and wooden floor were like a dream that seemed fine until a minor detail twisted it into something uncomfortable and strange. The door itself was too nice for someone like her. The furniture, or strange minimalist lack of, made the room uncomfortably huge. Margret sighed. There was still something missing, something even her awful living situation from before had had.

As the evening wore on, and so did the unpacking, the reason for the wrongness became terribly clear. For someone who self-professed herself to hate the company of other, more “normal” people, Margret had almost been looking forward to the roommate life. The area was too bare, too distant, removed from the kind memories of her high school days. Sighing, she took an figurine from a magical girl anime out of her duffel bag and artistically placed it on the singular empty bookshelf across the room from her bed. 

Somehow, it made the whole setup look even more pathetic. The extra twin mattress in the room squeaked as she bumped it on the way back to her own bed, seeming to mock her attempt.

She collapsed onto the bed and sighed. Things were far from how she remembered them, even farther from how she wanted them, but at least she wasn’t in her mother’s home. Whatever was new and changed at Cygnet Lake beat out the way that her mother looked at her, the way her mother trained Margret’s little brother to do the same. They treated her like she was something to be pitied or avoided, some sort of undesirable animal with the even less desirable trait of being able to understand them, and sometimes even function.

The thoughts made Margret shiver with something akin to fear, but not quite it. Hatred? No. It might be justified if she hated her family, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to. Worry? What was there left to worry about? She was back at Cygnet Lake College Academy. She was back at home.

And every second, in the back of her mind, she could hear something, half her mother’s voice, half her own.  _ You just wanted to go back to school so someone would take care of you. You don’t care about learning or improving yourself, you just don’t want to face the real world. Lazy.  _

Margret’s breath hitched into an almost-sob. For a moment, she worried someone would hear, but then she realized that there was a louder, more insistent noise covering her sobs up. It was the distinct sound of wood scraping plaster, and then the even more distinct sound of a girl cursing.

Swinging her legs off the bed, Margret cautiously went to the door. “H-hello?”

“Hey! Are you, um, Margret Siegfried? Can you come help me for a moment?”

“Um…” Margret opened the door cautiously, wondering what she would find. The answer almost made her laugh. The girl on the other side was a young woman who looked to be a few years younger than Margret herself was. Her naturally super curly black hair stuck up every which way, secured only by a loose headband, and her big brown eyes were narrowed at a desk she was dragging down the hall with only minimal success. The desk was bigger than the girl was, which did not take much at all… she was petite as could be, and how tall was she? Five foot three at the absolute most. She stared at the desk with what might have been a death stare, except for the fact that she didn’t seem able to give one. Only purple wire-rim glasses perched on her light brown nose gave any indication of seriousness at all.

The girl glanced up at Margret. “Please, please, please?”

“Uh, sure. What do you need?”

“We’ve got to move this into your room! My room. Our room!” She stuck out a hand cheerfully. “Hi! I’m Racheline Santiago, your new roommate!”

“My roommate?”

“Yeah, there was a problem! They put too many people in the cottage for us all to get our own room, so we’re gonna have to share. Is that okay?” Racheline’s face fell as she began to seem worried, and she dropped her hand, seeming conscious that Margret hadn’t yet taken it. “I guess we can talk to someone if it isn’t.”

“No, no, it’s fine by me,” Margret assured. “Sure, let me help you. There’s lots of empty space in here, I think we can fit it next to my desk… do we have to move all your furniture?”

“Nnnnnope!” Racheline drew the word out in a childlike fashion. “They’re sending some people to do anything that I have in there that you don’t already have a spare of, but… I wanted my desk here first. I wanted to get it set up and everything. You’re sure this is okay?”

“Definitely, definitely.”

“Awesome! So, um, you  _ are _ Margret. Just to be sure?”

Margret almost allowed a tiny smile. It sounded so much like something she’d say that she immediately began to trust Racheline a little bit. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Any nicknames?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want any nicknames?”

“Um, I don’t really care, I guess?”

Racheline tilted her head in thought, then smiled. “I guess we’ll see if any come up, then! Now, let’s get this inside before some poor kid tries to squeeze past it and hates us for the rest of the semester.

Margret smiled slightly at that. “Okay, sure.” 

“You take that side, and I’ll take this one?”

“Yeah, okay.”

It took some counting and some rearranging and at least fifteen long moments, but the desk was fit into the room, right next to Margret’s own desk as she had predicted. Racheline looked upon it with pride, then grinned at Margret and promised, “I’ll be right back,” before she raced out of the room. Alone again, Margret’s mind spun with logistics… where would the rest of Racheline’s furniture go? What rules would have to be put down? Could this new, whimsical roommate be convinced to go halvesies on a minifridge?

Racheline returned with a big box of things. Most of it seemed to be books, but not all novels or texts. Sketchbooks were placed in the shelf above her desk, and art instruction books with them. An e-reader was placed in a drawer. Fiction, most of it being high fantasy or crime thrillers,stacked upwards rather than neatly, with spines facing out. Were they put in the traditional way, Margret deduced quickly, there wouldn’t be room for all of them.

So Racheline was a reader. A reader, and an artist, and considering the content of the art books, an anime fan. Margret sheepishly remembered her singular displayed figurine, and felt grateful for that small whim of fate. If her new roommate hadn’t been at least a little bit of a nerd, that might have been hard to explain. As it was, Racheline was displaying her own figurines, though unlike Margret’s tendencies towards the inexpensive ones she found at her favorite bookstore, or, god forgive her, the vinyl figurines that were the subject of scorn in her online circles, Racheline’s were fully poseable. 

“Is that…” Margret started, pointing at a fully-armored anime woman with an intricate wand and a mischievous smile.

“She’s for artistic research.” Racheline’s expression was stubborn, daring Margret to comment. “Really.”

“I believe you! I just wanted to know, she’s from Color Guard X, isn’t she?”

“Yeah!” The expression switched into surprise, then happiness. “She is!”

“I don’t watch it, but I’ve heard it’s good.”

Racheline’s eyes gleamed. “Okay, so what are your plans for tonight?”

“Sleep? I guess? Eating dinner?”

“We’re taking our food in here. You  _ have _ to see it.” Racheline appraised Margret. “Aoi is a lot like you, y’know.”

“What?”

“You know, blonde and grey eyed and kind of quiet. You should cosplay her!”

“I’ve never… I don’t…”

“I’ll help!”

Was this normal friendship? Margret frowned, unsure. She’d never been an expert on social skills, or friends, or people in general. Still, over the course of her life, she was mostly convinced that she’d learned the basics of neurotypical human interaction, and Racheline was shooting down all of her expectations. Normal people didn’t go in first time meeting and offer to help you cosplay. They didn’t suggest a cosplay. They often didn’t even mention cosplay, unless, she supposed, you were meeting at at a cosplay convention, in which case all bets were off. 

But it was nice. It felt nice. 

She let herself smile a little. “Okay. That seems fun.”

* * *

They went to dinner at the nearest cafeteria, which seemed to be one that served authentic Italian. By the time they had received their to-go order, Margret felt like she knew more about Racheline than she did about half the people she’d lived and gone to school with for so many years. Racheline liked garlic, probably too-much. She was the baby of her family, with her older half-siblings all over a decade older than she was. Half of her family was Black and hailed from Jamaica, and half was Latino and from Mexico, and she spoke Spanish fluently. She loved anime, and art, and writing, and had a surprising amount of internet presence, due to her actively writing popular fanfiction for some of the larger fandoms. Even Margret could tell she was proud of that. The modesty was especially, but cutely, forced.

As they packed up the pasta and headed back to the dorm, Margret felt strangely at peace. The school year didn’t start for a week still, and everything was so quiet, soft, wonderful. She was here, at her school. At her home. She was here, and she had a friend? Perhaps? She was here, and as the warm summer night’s air caressed her face, one of the few tactile sensations that she loved and appreciated, she could almost call herself happy.

Racheline seemed to enjoy the night too, though where Margret’s enjoyment happened mostly silently, Racheline preferred to talk. Margret didn’t mind. She’d given up already on expecting the normal social skills that she’d forced herself to learn from her new roommate. Racheline’s openness was refreshing and easy to read. Margret almost loved it.

The soft wind picked up again, gently ruffling the flowerbeds and trees around the sidewalks of the school, and Margret breathed in deeply as Racheline told her about her  _ abuela _ and her father and older brothers in such vivid language that Margret almost felt like she was in both places at once. She exhaled with a smile, and her eyes, closed as she enjoyed the story and the scent, opened to see the short-haired and graceful proctor of her earlier exam. Professor Rowel. 

“Hold on,” Margret told Racheline lowly, shoving her bag of pasta and garlic bread into the smaller woman’s arms. 

Then, she took off at a run. Her sneakers hit the sidewalk loudly, the beat slightly off, her entire body clumsy, but still upright and going. Professor Rowel turned, seeming to hear Margret before she saw her. She smiled, perfect white teeth gleaming in the sunset. “Margret Siegfried. Congratulations on your re-admittance. I had every bit of faith in you.”

“Yeah,” said Margret, skidding to a stop. “Um. Thanks.”

“Can I do something for you?”

The words dropped from Margret’s brain.  _ Can she? What was I doing? _ “Um. I actually, kind of, um. I forgot.”

_ Way to go, loser. _

Professor Rowel, however, showed no signs of upset or disdain, her smile unchanging. “Oh. That’s fair. I do that all the time, myself. Well, if you remember, feel free to call me or drop by my office. I’m very pleased to be your Head of House.”

_ Oh. Oh yeah! _ “Actually! I remember now! That’s what I meant to talk to you about. Um, so I wasn’t in Crescendo before. I was in Castle.”

“Yes?”

“And. Um. Now I’m in Crescendo and… it’s not my House.”

The smile on Professor Rowel’s face turned sympathetic. Something about it rang a little bell in Margret’s head, and Margret furrowed her brow in confusion, trying to place the feeling. “Unfortunately, that’s out of either of our control. The House selection is fickle and not always set in stone. I’ve had people be moved into different Houses mid-term. I wish I could help you… give back what you’ve lost… but I can’t. Once it’s done, it’s done.”

“Really? There’s nothing we can do?”

“Unless it’s some sort of mistake, but I very highly doubt it.”

“Could we check?” Margret pleaded. “All my friends, all my stuff… it’s mostly Castle, you know?”

Professor Rowel seemed almost amused. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you meet me in my office tomorrow at eleven in the morning. It’s the first office in the Crescendo student building. You can’t miss it.”

Gratefulness seeped into Margret. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be really great. Thank you.”

“While you’re there, there’s some paperwork I’d like you to fill out anyway.”

“That’s a little less great, but okay.”

Professor Rowel laughed, a wonderful sound that made Margret smile. “Agreed, but necessary. Well then. I’ll see you there. You have a wonderful evening, Margret.”

“Yeah. You too.”

The professor waved a little bit, then turned the corner opposite of Margret and Racheline’s turn. Margret watched her go until Racheline caught up, the small woman seeming confused. “What was that all about?”

Margret shuffled a foot, shrugging, not wanting to over-share. “I just had a problem with some stuff, and she’s my adviser right now. I was supposed to call her and arrange a meeting, but since she was here, I thought I’d just… y’know, ask.”

“Seems fair to me!” chirped Racheline. “I hope everything works out!”

“Yeah,” said Margret. The words “me too,” were heavy on her tongue, but they were not the words that came out. Instead, she found herself saying “I think it will.”

Her mind wasn’t on that, however. Her mind was on the conversation that she had just had, and how she had finally figured out what was odd about it. Odette was doing something Margret herself had done earlier. The entire conversation was scripted, planned ahead of time. 

There was just one problem. How had Professor Rowel known that the conversation was going to happen?

* * *

Chess Bennett looked around at the empty courtyard. “Well,” they mused lightly, “this went better than I could have hoped.”

“There’s cameras, I bet,” said her best friend behind her. Serann was moving quickly, nervously, her hands coming up to her hair, then right back down to her cheeks, over to her arms, into her pockets. “How are you so relaxed?”

“Because we aren’t doing anything wrong,” Chess answered, their voice calm and soft. “We’re both eighteen years old. Sure, it’s a little untraditional for lower school students to leave campus without permission, but I left a note.”

“Oh great,” said Serann, sarcasm leaking into her voice with the weak consistency of crepe batter. “You left a note. Just what we’re supposed to do.”

“Lighten up! The term doesn’t start for a week, and we’re going to be gone, what, one night? They may not even notice.”

“Who’s our dorm adviser this year, Mona Nirow? She will  _ definitely _ notice,” Serann said, “and even if he doesn’t, Odette certainly will.”

“We’re doing this for Odette. She can’t say a word, much less a complaint. Here, help me over the fence.”

“If what we’re doing is legal, why can’t we just use our student IDs to hop through the front gate like normal people?”

Chess smiled in the infuriating way of someone who knew more than you and loved you very dearly and was trying to be very patient. “Because the card readers shut down for the lower school at ten. Adults or not.”

“So this is against the rules,” Serann groaned.

“Well. Technically, if you want to think of it like that, yes. But it’s not illegal!”

“Exactly what I’ve always wanted to hear.” 

Still, she nudged her sturdy baton firmly into the iron curls of the fence that surrounded the City of Children, hoping to any and all gods that it would not break. A broken baton would be very hard to explain to the rest of the color guard. Chess grinned gratefully and wrapped their hand around it, using it to boost themself up to the top of the fence. From there, it was all a matter of avoiding the iron spikes, and of dropping safely back down. “Come on!” they said. “Now you.”

“Couldn’t you hack the card reader?” Suddenly, the ten-foot high fence looked to be about a thousand feet.

“I mean,  _ duh _ , but that  _ would _ be illegal, I’m pretty sure.”

“Oh, well, of course. Cause that’s stopped everyone in Crescendo before.”

“I’m a senior in high school and a freshman in college. I don’t think you’re supposed to hit morally grey until the end of your first college semester, and full on evil comes in grad school.”

“Duly noted. Guess you’re early.”

“A little bit,” they said, and the pride may not have been sarcastic.

Serann took a big, deep, calming breath that did anything but actually calm her. Then, she wiggled one foot, then the other, into the iron curls. “What are we doing once we’re over the fence?” she asked.

“If you get over here quickly, there’s one last shuttle into town.”

“Will they notice we’re lower school students?” 

“I’ve got college shirts in my bag, so hopefully not. They’ve never IDed us before, and I don’t imagine them starting now. Besides, worst case scenario, we walk, right?”

“Don’t act like that’s no big deal! The next town is eight miles away!”

Chess giggled. “Oh, come on.  _ You’re _ the athlete here. You should be able to scramble over here no problem, or at least walk without issue. I’m just the chess nerd, so if anyone is allowed to have a problem, it would be me.”

Serann passed her baton, gaining a steady rhythm up until the top of the fence. She looked down. Chess looked up on her, with that steady, confident grin that had gotten Serann into so much trouble in so many ways. “Why am I doing this again?” she asked.

“Because you love me.”

It was true. Chess had _no idea how much._

With a quick twist, Serann started down the iron fence, scrambling faster that way than she had done when heading upwards. She stumbled about halfway, only to find gentle, soft hands catching her and guiding her the rest of the way to the ground. “Careful,” Chess said softly. “I can’t have you getting hurt, not on my watch.”

Serann’s heart beat fast, though she could not place if it was the adrenaline of sneaking out, or the feelings of having a crush on her best friend. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey, you forgot to grab your baton.”

Serann looked through the fence. Sure enough, her baton was still stuck firmly in from the other side. “I don’t think I could pull it through. Fuck!” she cursed. “This is so shitty!”

“Hold on, maybe I can get it. Maybe it’s rectangular enough to…”

They stared at the baton, eyes unfocused, but intense. Around them, the world seemed to sharpen, and Serann gripped the bottom of her shirt, hoping for a good result.

But the baton didn’t even so much as wiggle, let alone come flying free. Serann sighed. “I guess not,” she said glumly.

“We’ll figure something out. Maybe nobody will notice it?” Chess said, their confidence finally appreciated by Serann. “We picked a discreet corner.”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right. Um, shouldn’t we get going? You still haven’t explained what we’re supposed to be doing.” And Serann was starting to worry about that. She couldn’t think of anything good that would come from sneaking out of school… especially not on so-called Crescendo business.

Chess nodded, and brought their hand up to playfully salute the baton. “Your sacrifice will not be in vain,” they said, and then they turned and ran towards the shuttle stop.

Serann smiled. Then, she followed.

* * *

 

They got into town with no more problem, everything smooth as Chess had anticipated. College sweaters draped over their street clothes were a perfect disguise, and Chess, a dual enrollment student, even had a college schedule tucked into their bag in a way that let it peek out, able to be seen by all. The shuttle driver, not one to memorize the ages, names, and faces of the several thousand students on campus, smiled at them, commented on the lateness of the night, and started to the nearby town of Ravensborough. 

The road was bumpy, and Serann’s arms found Chess’s shoulders in a desperate attempt to grab onto  _ something _ . “Do you think this is going to work?” she asked.

Chess shrugged and grinned. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Well, they might catch us, but I feel like if they do, then at least they can hear us out, right?”

Serann blinked in disbelief, her brow furrowing as she examined the enby beside her. “Do you hear yourself? Chess, they’re  _ dangerous _ . They’re  _ renegades _ . And they’re renegades who are like us… they have powers. We don’t have the upper hand on this one! I’ll do this with you and everything, but you can’t be so blase about it! Seriously!”

“Mmm, I’m not blase, I’m just trying to… not get scared, or worried, I guess. Besides, I have a plan.” They went to their backpack and started rustling around inside of it. There were a few grunts of discouragement before a soft “a-ha!” They pulled out a long, black wig of straight and synthetic hair, a wig cap, and a ring that was filled with ponytail bands. “Put this on.”

“What? Why?”

“I can’t have them recognize you, if we do get seen. Your job is to run and let the others know if that… or if, ah, capture… happens. Change your eye color, okay?”

“You’re preparing for capture?” Yet her eyes obediently faded from the violet she preferred to a dull brownish-grey. The tingle in her head that her power produced was pleasant as ever, and she shivered from it even as she pulled on the wig cap, then the wig, over her own blonde waves. 

“I’m preparing for everything,” Chess said quietly. Then, they brightened, reassuringly smiling at Serann as they wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It won’t happen, though. You know that, right? You trust me?”

“Of course I trust you.”

Chess’s smile grew larger, brighter. “Thanks. Best friends forever?”

“Yeah, forever.”  _ And maybe, hopefully, more than that someday? _ She couldn’t bring herself to ask, even after all the times she wondered if Chess was flirting with her.

The shuttle bus slowed in front of the large hall that seemed out of place, gaudy in the small town of Ravensborough, which was smaller than Cygnet Lake by half. Serann couldn’t remember the last time she had visited this tiny place. The school had its own restaurants and shopping, had its own recreation. What reason was there for someone to leave? Even if they only wanted a change of scenery, it was often enough to head to the other side of the campus, away from the normal areas one frequented.

Chess was a rarity who came into town often, and only because their mother lived here. Even so, it seemed strange. Serann grimaced to think of Chess’s mother, who was not happy with anything, let alone her child’s take on gender. Still, Chess dutifully went home at least twice a month, sometimes dragging their friends along with them. They also, it could be noted, dressed as androgynous as possible, although their style and appearance normally tended more towards the feminine.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Serann asked.

“I’ve got an address, and it’s near my mom’s place.” Serann noticed they were tying their long red hair into a tight ponytail as they started to disembark the bus. “We should be able to find it easily. “And then we’ll spend the night with Mom, hopefully she won’t notice, and we can be out and back at school by breakfast.”

“The shuttles run that early?”

Chess laughed, and looked back at Serann, reaching an arm out to ruffle their friend’s hair. “Someone needs to start getting up on time and find out,” they teased.

Serann rolled her eyes, blushing all the same. “Come on. Let’s just find the place and get this done with.”

* * *

The house, once found, was horribly, horribly domestic. It gave context to the lives of these young women that Chess and Serann had been trained to think upon solely as enemies. Every plant in their garden, every shingle on their roof, it gave life and definition. Serann found herself reluctant to go further than the white picket fence surrounding the property. It was only Chess, walking in with that surety and confidence that they were able to wear like an article of clothing, that allowed Serann to make the next step.

“It’s going to be locked,” Serann said weakly.

Chess pulled something from their bag. “Yes, I know.”

“Is that…”

Serann had never seen a lockpicking kit before, but what else could that be? Chess held the small items up to the moonlight, appraising them, before they started to finagle the little lock that secured the house. “Don’t worry,” they said with a tiny, focused smile, “I watched a lot of internet videos on this in the last week.”

“What?”

“If anyone asks, I’m a writer and I’m doing research,” they said calmly.

“Chess, you’ve never written a word outside of homework and you and everyone else knows it.”

“People can change.”

Serann sighed. “If the government arrests you because of your questionable search history, I am  _ not _ bailing you out,” she said with a weak laugh, knowing fully well it was halfway a lie. If she could, she would. 

The lock clicked, and Chess gave a self-satisfied grin, putting the picks away and opening the door. “Welcome to my crib,” they joked, holding it open for Serann with a tiny little bow.

“Oh, ha ha. Come on, let’s… do whatever… and get out of here. It’s creepy.”

“Why? I think it’s charming.” They would, of course they would. The door led into a hallway with well cared for navy carpeting, a vintage record player, a couple bookshelves, and a staircase. A small chandelier hung from the ceiling. The walls were a pale blue with white trim, something that brought all the decor together. It would have been charming, knowing a lesbian couple owned such a cute, domestic place, if not for the fact that one of said lesbians was literally the scariest woman in the world. 

“I just don’t like it,” Serann said with a shiver, thinking of that woman, the Fearsayer. She had never met the woman, and that was exactly how she liked it. Horror stories filled Crescendo house, stories of what this mysterious woman was like. She had a power that went beyond the ones that most of the group knew… no changing eye colors, limited telekinesis, future vision, or geology-based energy manipulation. The Fearsayer got her name from her power and from her lack of any reluctance to use it. The Fearsayer knew your deepest, darkest fears at a single glance, and she would not hesitate to exploit them.

She couldn’t have a life, or a cute girlfriend. She didn’t deserve one, not after making a wreck of psychic after psychic. 

Chess closed the door and locked it behind both of them. “Well,” they said brightly. “If I were some documents that could destroy the world as we know it, where would I hide?”

“God, if this house is domestic enough to have a library or a study, I’ll die,” Serann muttered.

“Oh, it probably is. It probably does. Please don’t die, I need you.”

Serann’s heart beat faster, though whether it was from the continued unnerving creepiness or the attention of her crush, she wasn’t sure.

“I’d say downstairs is our best bet. These two seem like the type to be home by midnight, so let’s make it quick. You take the left side of the hall, I’ll take the right, and we’ll meet upstairs?”

“Yeah, okay,” Serann said quickly, making a mental note to go as quick as she could get away with. It was already fifteen minutes past eleven. Time wasn’t something that they had a lot of.

The two broke off with a glance and a nod, Chess’s face too easy for the circumstances. Serann’s part had three rooms, rooms she barely glanced at. They wouldn’t keep important papers in the living room or bathroom, would they? A small sunroom was suspect, but it seemed to be filled with art supplies and bookshelves. If the Fearsayer was planning something nefarious, as everyone suspected, Serann doubted that she would be planning it in the same room that her girlfriend seemed to do her landscape paintings. 

Serann was first up the stairs and didn’t wait for Chess to start on the upstairs rooms. There were only three of them, and any at all seemed reasonable places to put the papers they sought. Still, even with the threat looming large, Serann seemed frozen as she looked into the master bedroom. A bed, bedside table, television, and dresser were the only furniture, but items gave insight into a life that Serann tried to ignore. Books, tons of them, littered the tops of every surface, and… _oh god, is that lingerie all over the floor? Is there enough fabric there to even call it lingerie? And next to it..._ ** _is that a collar?_**  Serann shut her eyes in abject horror. Without looking further, she stumbled backwards and towards the next room, also a bedroom, but it seemed to be a guest room of sorts. Safer. Infinitely safer, though less likely to be hiding anything she _wanted_ to find.

She went inside anyway.

Steps clamored up the stairs, and Serann froze until she heard Chess, their voice easy. “This last room’s the study. Called it. I’ll take this one, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Serann said, still shaken. She found a corner and sat down in it, taking a deep, staggering breath. 

She breathed it out, and the pause before she inhaled revealed a faint sound, the sound of a door being opened.

_ Chess?  _

No. The study was too close to the guest bedroom. She would have heard it louder, she would have heard the voice of her best friend, the giggles and laughs. This door opening could only mean one thing, the worst thing.

_ They’re home. _

She heard laughter, the sort of laughter of a girl in love, and feet starting slowly up the stairs, the creak of a wooden banister as it supported weight. Serann darted from the guest room into the study, where Chess sat with a stack of neatly-printed papers, grinning from ear to ear as they read. Serann hissed quietly, running over to them on tiptoe and smacking her hand down softly on top. 

Chess broke out of their trance with a look of horror as they looked up at Serann. “They’re here, Chess!” hissed Serann, feeling her eye color flick nervously against her will, not knowing what colors might be showing up, but hoping they moved Chess to action. “We have  _ seconds _ .”

Chess nodded and listened. The laughter was closer now, the voices soft and sweet as they spoke to each other, still too quiet and personal for Chess or Serann to hear. They grew closer by the second, and Chess took a deep breath. For the first time, Serann noticed, her confident friend looked shaken. Scared. Their head flicked around the room, looking for a way out, and finding only a large picture window. 

“I can’t jump,” said Serann timidly. “I’m… I’m scared.”

Nodding, Chess’s face sunk. “I have another idea. Can you… will you trust me?”

“Always. Of course.”

They nodded again and went to the bookshelf. Behind it was a large, thin, piece of wood, something that might be used to patch a wall or build a set. They placed it gently onto the ground. “Climb on.”

“What?”

“Trust me.”

Serann climbed aboard. 

“Take these.” They shoved the stack of papers into Serann’s hands, then ran over to open the window. A warm August breeze blew in on them, and Serann had to grip the paper tight to keep it from scattering. “Now, close your eyes and trust me, promise you’ll trust me.”

“I promise.” She shut her eyes. 

Then, she felt unsteadiness, shakiness. She ungripped the paper with one hand, trusting her other to keep the stack safe, and used the now-empty hand to regain her balance on the board. From the way her fingers easily curled onto one side, she knew she was floating. She had to be floating. 

Her entire body, and the board with it, jerked forward. “Duck!” yelled Chess, and Serann obeyed. 

With her eyes closed, she concentrated on the feeling of the warm wind around her, and on the sounds and voices that grew ever more distant. “What was that?” asked a worried, clear, high voice, one that did not belong to Chess, but came from inside the house all the same. 

Serann felt herself lower almost gently to the ground. After the feeling of the board hitting the ground sunk in, she opened her eyes and looked towards the window on the second floor. Chess was staring out. “Run!” they yelled.

“Chess! No!”

“You promised! Trust me!”

Serann was frozen.

_ “Run!” _

The tears hit her eyes, stinging, bringing her back to herself. Serann nodded, hugged the papers that Chess had given her, and bolted back towards the city center.

* * *

The shadows lengthened as the door to the study opened. Chess did not turn around. What was the point? They knew who was there. What they didn’t know was what was going to happen to them. They weren’t entirely sure that they wanted to know.

“Who the  _ fuck _ are you?” asked a voice, though the tone was almost too flat to be a question. It was a low and silken voice, one that could almost steal a heart away, but Chess never had found fear to be something attractive. Fear was weakness. This woman proved it. 

Chess didn’t answer. They didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but silence, hopefully, gave them some sort of upper hand. 

“Ryan,” said the voice, now softer and not directed at Chess, “go downstairs and call Lucas.”

“Miranda…”

“Ryan, please. Trust me.”

The echo of what Chess had said to Serann was entirely unwelcome, and Chess cringed. 

Footsteps started back down the stairs, and then a different, slower rhythm came towards Chess. A firm, chilly hand gripped them by the shoulder and spun them around, right into the cold eyes of the Fearsayer herself.

Did vampires exist? If magic did, then it stood to reason that monsters did too, and if anyone looked like a vampire, it was the Fearsayer. Her eyes were a shade of brown that had too much red in them, and her skin had the promise of a darker tone, but the reality seemed to show that she rarely went outside, rendering the young woman a strange sort of pale. Straight black hair was cropped neatly at her chin, and not a single strand of hair in her bangs so much as swept her eyebrows, which were thick and gorgeous. She watched Chess with an expression that was simultaneously exasperated and amused. “Breaking into my house? This is a new tactic.”

“I wouldn’t call it a tactic so much as a spur of the moment decision,” Chess returned with forced lightness, trying to match the Fearsayer’s confidence.

“Ah, that’s good, because in all honesty, I’d not call it a tactic either. What are you doing here?”

“You think I’d tell you?”

The Fearsayer’s eyes bored into Chess in a way that could only mean one thing. The red tint to her eyes seemed to grow more pronounced, more hypnotic. Chess gazed into the Fearsayer’s eyes, trying to figure out just  _ what _ this strange coloring was. “I think you would tell me if you were faced with death.”

The words twinged in Chess’s heart.  _ Don’t kill me, I’m only eighteen! I’m just a kid! _ Even knowing that this was what the Fearsayer did… what she was known for… it didn’t stop Chess from feeling that intrinsic fear. They didn’t know how far the Fearsayer and her lackeys would go. Death might not be an empty threat.

“Start talking,” commanded the Fearsayer softly.


End file.
